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Sunday, 1 March 2015

Very Loud

My thoughts are very
loud -- very loud indeed. My thoughts have been very loud -- mind bogglingly so
at times -- for as long as I can remember. These very loud thoughts -- voices
really -- I have always been able to distinguish from the imaginary voices that
only I am able to hear. I first began hearing them at the age of twenty-one, these
latter voices always talking simultaneously in a soft choir-like effect. But
unlike my own personal, loud thoughts/voices this choir has always been very
positive and upbeat. Inspiring a bit of window shopping, or some comfort food,
maybe an iced tea, or giving a fleeting epiphany about the nature of Reality, anything
to cheer me up when the sadness gets too much. You try living out here, a squat
your only filthy home.

But though these constant voices are
always kind, my initial discovery of them landed me pretty quickly in Rozella
Psychiatric Hospital, distraught to the point of yearning, stretching bodily
contortions. I have no recollection of how this first admission to Rozella,
near the heart of Sydney, came about but I do remember that my fracturing mind
made it to there just in time. And in a week, unbelievably, I had more or less
completely recovered from this episode of legal insanity - caused by my
amphetamine abuse since the age of twenty-three. I am now aged almost
twenty-five. I slept through most of
that first week, putting my mind back together piece by piece. And on the seventh
evening of this first admission I was taken off Level 1 Care, where a nurse had
to be with me at all times. And, yes, it was at all times.

I eventually learned that I was involuntarily
scheduled to remain in Rozella Psychiatric Hospital. I had no choice. I was
locked in the nuthouse. Man, I needed a smoke then, some choice heady pot.

You’d think that since it was illicit
drugs that caused my insanity that I’d naturally avoid them. The trouble with
schizophrenics like me is that sometimes simple messages like that just don’t
get through. It took me years and years and years to grow out of pot, to
recognise it really is a poison to me. But back then, on the evening of
learning that I was scheduled for ten weeks, at the end of my second week of
recovery, I had got together a select few patients, some of whom I’d already
smoked with, to partake of a fifty of the good ganja, pot. I had sneaked out
for the ganja. The nurses always keep track of the scheduled patients and the
times they couldn’t find me I lied that I was having a sleep amongst some
bushes. But they always looked doubtful when I told them this, virtually sure
that I had been out to score some pot. Thus, I had my regular welfare payments,
rent and food paid, lots of free time, so it was only natural that I spend that
extra money and time in partying with my fellow thoughtful patients. Not too
loudly though, and not too obviously.

This didn’t mean that the hospitals nurses
were stupid, they knew that the opulent, rambling grounds were home to my
parties but they had no proof. And such wonderful parties! Just with people so
completely original where it mattered, people too mentally ill to care what you
thought of them. And the parties looked to last eternally. Until they busted me
with a freshly bought fifty. The ball was now firmly in their court.

Rozella was quite generous, telling me
they wouldn’t report me to the police if I stopped inveigling others into my
serious ganja habit. Naturally I agreed.

The solution to this new barrier to a
naturally fun loving nature like my own I was easily able to solve: I’ll shout
the others alcohol instead, Dianne specifically asking for some port last night.

Need I say again that the hospital nurses
weren’t stupid? They could smell my liquor from the other side of that
magnificent park. Also, need I say that my first admission to Rozella
Psychiatric Hospital resulted in them evicting me? Yes indeed. Eight days before I could legally leave of my
own free will. But I loved the grounds so much that I kept returning there,
getting the usual crew together to revel, revelling under the stars for the
simple reason of revelling under the stars. I slept during the day, bored, and
intoxicated. It was great.

Great for the voices too, their often
laughing choir making me ticklish. Great, initially. But the voices soon grew
bored of the constant merriment, vaguely feeling that I was manipulating these
helpless patients. But we all had a good time, didn’t we? The voices were
unsure and let me know with the odd curt remark, always managing to point out
that I was simply being unreasonable in partying with Dianne, Dean, Cathy, and
Tom. I should really be partying back in this squat, partying indeed with the
real world, not the unwell world. I should also not be poisoning the unwell
world.

‘Well, let’s compromise,’ I said to the
voices, for some reason myself always feeling the need to party, ‘I’ll go to
Rozella less.’

‘Deal!’ said the voices.

*

I must say that I was
surprised when our core group, the two Ds, Cathy, and Tom, was whittled down to
just one person: Cathy. She returned home yesterday, the hospital finally finding
the right mix of meds for a bipolar disorder that seemed to be triggered by
ordinary nutrients.

So here I sit, getting stoned, alone.
Writing. You, kind reader, are undoubtedly asking me why I just don’t hand
myself into Rozella Hospital and get help with my housing, just fake being
crazy, talk to some voices, no problem, they’ll help me. Because I like my
freedom, the main reason why I have chosen to live this homeless life. Besides,
I’ve already just tried and they told me I was unwelcome there, being such a
bad influence.

And so, after meeting such kind people as
the mentally ill, I can’t really make friends any more on the outside of
hospital, with ‘normal’ people and their dominating agendas. But since I’m now not
allowed to make friends with those open, generous and good people on the inside
of hospital, who can I make friends with?

Well, really, as I remain here thinking, it’s
the mentally ill that are the more worthwhile, simply interested in feeling
good, no agenda, no malice, and honestly hoping everyone else will feel as good
as they do.

Still, all that glitters isn’t gold. I
could well get another party clique going, if I really wanted to, but what’s
the point? They’ll all return home again and here I’ll be left alone and smoking
by myself in the soothing vales of Rozella Psychiatric Hospital.

*

I’ve got one more trick
up my sleeve: I’m going to check myself into the Rozella Admission Office here,
just beyond this small group of trees and beg them to help me with my voices. I’ll
swear to them that I’ll keep my drugs to myself, and if I even blow one person
out I’ll agree to leave quietly and never return to haunt their lives. It
should work. And I do need help with these voices, good as they are. I’ll try
now; wish me luck!

*

Well, they let me in.
To my woe. They took everything off of me, except this notebook and a pencil,
and I had to do some real fast talking to keep the pencil, a sharp object. No
cigarettes, no lighter, no phone, no books. I’m soon to be taken to the locked
ward. I had to swear, when they were considering admitting me, literally, upon
a Bible, that I would not tempt the other patients as I am inadvertently wont
to do. If I didn’t swear I would be
kicked back out onto the streets again and refused admission. Give me peace for
now, kind reader, I’ll let you know in the morning how I spend tonight.

*

It’s nice having
friends: Cathy is back in hospital and having learned I arrived back here a few
days ago has brought me in a joint. I’ll save it for the last smoke of the day,
before bed. She’s just come into some money and has set aside a good amount to
shout me and a few friends of my choice. I’ll let her bring the people, these
so-called nutty people in whom I can casually see my own peaceful aspirations in.
And when this new party clique naturally dissolves I’ll begin another. Cheers!

~

If you've been enjoying Denis' stories here his previous such stories, from September 2013 to February 2015, are also available as a Kindle book, Amongst the Ways of God, at http://amzn.to/1IcruuX, which also includes several completely new ones. You may also enjoy his debut novel, This Mirror in Me, which tells the story of how Tonia achieves her life's fundamental aim of having her home as a social hub, by staring at herself in the mirror. It is also available as a Kindle book at http://amzn.to/1gXGF9h. Denis also has a short non-fiction book available, King Street Blues, which is an encouraging tale of Denis' willfully chosen five years of homelessness in the inner cities of Sydney and Melbourne. It too is available as a Kindle book at http://amzn.to/1xwiVGb. If you don't have a Kindle you can download the Kindle app for free onto your smartphone, tablet, or computer through your local app store.